Disclaimer-Nope, not mine.
The first time, Six is just barely thirteen; all gangly limbs and big blue eyes just recognized potential. They {for it is always They, not King, never, never him} have realized just how good of an agent he is, how good he could be.
So they stopped sending him on small, safe missions, on drug busts and prostitution rings, and into what seemed to be a patch of Hell.
He is back in his new home, his small, ugly, icy cold home, gripping the sink in the kitchen. His hands are coated in red, sticky and bright and metallic, the smell burning itself into his mind. He can see is reflection on the faucet, twisted to something monstrous, and tells himself that there's no such thing as foreshadowing, not outside of his books.
He turns the water on, as hot as it can possibly go, and thrusts his hands under the blast. It burns, and hurts, and he knows he deserves every second of it. When Six glances down, he sees the blood mix with the water in strings, like paint, and he thinks, how pretty.
When he takes his hands out from under the water, the heat has dyed them red.
{And something inside him breaks with a silent snap}
The second time, Six is fourteen and tall, muscles finally appearing, and he looks like something to be wary of, just a little. He sits, spine straight, in the medical area of the Deck, uncaring white complemented with harsh lighting.
He is sore on the outside, but on the inside he is raw{two urges scraping, scraping away until there is nothing left} and has just gotten the okay to go home. The only reason he hasn't sprinted there, to the silent, soundproof walls {for in his sleep, there is no holding back the screams} is because he has nothing to clean his nails with.
He usually keeps them short, military grade, but skipped clipping them that morning, and so now he pulls dried blood out from under them, so dark he tells himself its just dirt.
When King enters Six glances up slowly, keeping his pain {himself} hidden, because pawns are not made to be broken, with spider web cracks running through their souls.
Six is fifteen when he cleans blood of himself for the third time, but this time it is his own. His stiches have yanked through his skin, makeshift as they were, thick black stark against his skin. He thinks it's fitting, the broken toy soldier stitched together by its own hand {because who helps a toy in this dark, uncaring world?}
He had tried to fight, seeing an escape to the dim, faded light of the outside, but was beaten down, hands hard against his wounds, hence the liquid flooding down his side. He has nothing to clean himself with this time, just his hands, already stained, stained red {because he had to fight the law, the very government, wondering when it had become a crime to be made stronger than most}, but he was the only one who seemed to be able to see it.
Pressing down, he holds back a scream, cracking his teeth, and prays to a God that no longer exists to please, please, take him now.
He is sixteen now, though he looks older, bigger, finally big enough to fit his fierce reputation. He has come back from his missions, old and battered and scarred, and has stopped wondering if his end is near.
He moves, breathes, and doesn't quite feel the guilt of blood anymore {because you can only shatter so many times until there is no putting yourself back again}, and tells himself he stopped being human when he stopped being innocent {which was never, because how could such a dirty, stained soul ever have possibly been pure?}. He slips into Kyntak's office, whipping the un-locked door open to see his brother shooting wrappers into a wastebasket.
Kyntak glances up and grins. "Six! Still not knocking, I see."
Six looks at the mess of his brother's office and raises an eyebrow. "Kyntak. Still not doing work, I see."
His twin tilts his head back and laughs, long and low and loud. Six waits for him to finish before tossing his report on Kyntak's desk. When he only looks at him questioningly, Six sighs.
"I thought you'd be tired of hacking the system to learn mission stats. If you don't want them… "
When he leans in to take them back, Kyntak slams his hand over them. "No, no I'll take them." He squints, and asks Six, almost softly, "How'd the mission go?" Six almost doesn't have to work to keep his expression neutral, and wonders when that happened.
"Good. We got the leader. Almost no blood was spilt. "
"Yeah? Because last I checked, you didn't have a freckle." With that, Kyntak licked his thumb and wiped it along Six's cheekbone. Six felt himself tense, {because nobody touched him, Six the monster, Six the demon, stained red, red as blood}. "There!" Kyntak said brightly, with a tone that did nothing to mask his reaction to Six's response of invasion of personal space. "Got it."
{And maybe, Six thinks, just maybe, he can start to put himself back together}
Well, there's my first three and one, so... Yeah. I focused more on the angst then what caused it, so I'm not sure if I quite like this one. Oh, well.
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